


Soar

by hardlyinhightown



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A study on Markus and Carl's dynamic, Gen, Markus' journey to deviancy, and then beyond, no beta we die like men, something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 18:58:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15297897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyinhightown/pseuds/hardlyinhightown
Summary: "What do you think, Markus?"–Markus doesn't know if he thinks or what he thinks, but he's learning.





	Soar

**Author's Note:**

> If I can't find a fic about Markus and Carl bonding, I'll write it my damn self.
> 
> This is the first fic I've written in several years but what can I say, dbh is proving to be really inspiring. I'm open to constructive criticism and any grammar pointers that y'all might have as long as you're nice about it. Enjoy!

 

 

 

In the beginning Markus can tell Carl doesn’t like him much.

One dead giveaway is that Carl makes it so abundantly clear himself on the day following Markus’ arrival. He’s dialing Elijah Kamski’s number at 10:03 am, around the earliest time it’s socially acceptable to call someone on a Saturday morning.

“I told you, I don’t need some robot babysitting me, Elijah! I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Carl snaps as soon as someone picks up at the other end of the line. “…Yes, I _am_. Fine. It’s fine, I just don’t see why you think it’s necessary.”

Markus stands placidly a few feet from Carl’s bed, waiting for Carl to put the phone down so he can proceed to administrating Carl his medicine. Carl knows this, too, and will most probably let him do it, even if he’s not pleased about it.

Markus is programmed to want to be likeable and pleasant to be around, but Carl disliking him doesn’t really bother him. He seems decent, if a little surly, and since it’s not affecting Markus’ daily tasks in any way, he doesn’t see a problem. His programming, however, urges him to constantly strive towards a companionable relationship with Carl, and he’s advanced enough to realize pretty soon in that Carl Manfred is lonely but also just really stubborn.

Markus has as much charm as CyberLife could cram into one android and then some, and his programming is putting it all to good use. He’s an RK200, after all, and running a quick analysis on Carl’s character and then a scan of his house provide Markus with several dozen things to talk about. The first time he initiates a discussion about renaissance painters and their influence on modern art Carl looks pleasantly surprised in a begrudging kind of way, and they talk for a good 9 minutes 27 seconds, which according to Markus is the longest time they’ve actually spoken and a huge progress from the previous record of 36 seconds.

“I guess it would be a shame to waste such a marvel of design and technology on an old man with an attitude,” Carl admits one afternoon, scratching his chin with the pen he’s been sketching something with for the past 48 minutes 32 seconds.

Markus nods. He’s spent enough time studying Carl’s behavior to know he’s expected to answer but he’s yet to determine which of the possible answers won’t offend him. “If you say so.”

Carl looks at him. “What do you think, Markus?”

“Me?” Markus hesitates, trying to determine the right answer to this question. “I don’t really think – “

“Yes, yes, I know.” Carl waves a hand in the air dismissively, and Markus decides that another answer would’ve been better.

“I think you’re right,” he ventures, and Carl shrugs.

“I suppose that’s something.”

_Something_. Markus catalogues and saves the answer and the reaction, too, just in case.

 

 

 

Carl paints on most days. He doesn’t really talk while doing it, and Markus’ only instructions are to clean the studio. Washing the used brushes, sweeping the floors and organizing the paint cans on the shelves is simple and fast enough, and usually Markus is left standing idly beside Carl’s wheelchair, waiting for instructions.

Waiting turns to watching so easily.

Markus doesn’t really have an opinion – or any opinions at all, really – on Carl’s paintings. He doesn’t understand art, but he’s organized the paint cans by color and can appreciate the shifting of hues in Carl’s paintings just like he can appreciate an organized shelf as a finished task. It reads as something that’s been achieved in his head until Carl paints over it. Then it’s kind of ruined, same as a yellow can of paint between red and blue ones.

“What do you think, Markus?” Carl asks. He’s been asking that a lot lately.

“I think the gradient from blue to purple is really pleasing to look at,” Markus replies.

Carl smiles. “Figures. And how do you like the entire thing? The subject?”

Markus steps a little closer. The painting is one of the larger ones, not the size of the wall but maybe one fourth of it, and depicts a pair of outstretched arms reaching up to something, maybe the sky. It’s detailed but still retains some sketchiness to leave it on this side of abstract.

“It’s beautiful,” he admits. He’s not sure whether he really thinks so or if it’s just his programming talking.

“But what does it make you _feel_?” Carl urges, reaching out from on top of his crane to put a hand on Markus’ shoulder.

“I – “ Markus doesn’t think Carl needs another reminder that Markus is a machine and doesn’t really feel anything the way Carl seems to be referring to, but he can’t bring himself to say it. The painted arms, still wet from the brush strokes, are stretched upwards, fingers separated to catch something or maybe searching for something to cling to. Above them a rainbow of blue fills the rest of the canvas. Carl has used every single shade of blue he owns. Markus knows; he brought the paints to him, he counted.

He’s not sure what Carl wants him to say. He’s never experienced this desperation the arms are reaching with. To him the sky’s always been just one kind of blue and, more importantly, the limit.

But that’s just a saying. In reality Markus’ limits are a lot lower than the sky.

“I don’t know,” Markus says finally in an oddly small voice. “I don’t know what it makes me feel.”

Against all his expectations, Carl seems satisfied. “That’s how it sometimes is with art. It’s not important that you can name all the feelings it makes you feel as long as it makes you feel _something_.”

There’s that _something_ again.

Markus finds he’d like to one day find out what that _something_ is.

 

 

 

Carl doesn’t like it when Markus stands at his side when he eats. Sometimes he likes to chat with Markus during lunch or dinner but he always tells him to sit down for that.

“I don’t like talking to you over my shoulder. I’m trying to get the food in my mouth here,” Carl says.

“Alright, Carl,” Markus replies with a grin and sits down.

Sometimes Carl prefers eating alone or watching the TV, and that usually means Markus has some time of his own.

He doesn’t understand what a luxury that is, really.

The first time Carl says this, though, Markus doesn’t understand at all.

“Go find something to do while I enjoy this lovely roasted salmon,” Carl says as Markus fills his glass with water.

“But I already cleaned the studio – “

“No, not work – well, unless you still have something to do, I suppose,” Carl says impatiently, “but something nice.”

Markus frowns. “Like what?”

Carl sighs, not unkindly. “Whatever you want. I’ll yell very loudly when I’m done.”

Markus straightens his back slowly. Whatever he wants.

It’s a task, but not one he knows exactly how to complete. Carl’s already digging in on his dinner, obviously done with the discussion, so Markus wanders to the middle of the living room and eyes his surroundings. _Whatever you want_. He hasn’t really considered such a thing before. He runs his finger along the books neatly arranged alphabetically on the shelves, glances at the studio door and finally settles on the piano stool.

He knows 2750 melodies and thousands more are at his fingertips if he so chooses.

In the end he plays Finlandia by Jean Sibelius simply because he’s never heard it before. It starts very grandiloquent, the power of the melody carrying over the room even though Markus tries to play it a little more softly than the notes in his head are telling him to. Halfway through the piece the melody’s taken a much more cheerful turn, and Markus’ fingers are dancing over the ivories with delightful ease.

When he’s finished, he’s almost startled by Carl clapping.

“That was beautiful, Markus,” Carl says, and Markus realizes that not only did it take him 9 minutes 18 seconds to play the piece, Carl has also probably been done with his dinner for quite some time now.

“Carl, I – “

“Could we have another one, please?”

Carl has apparently no intention of moving anywhere, and Markus sits back down on the stool.

“Of course.”

He plays Nocturne No. 2 by Frédéric Chopin. Carl applauds after that, too, and Markus gets to play on the following evening.

And the following.

And the following.

He may not realize that free time is a luxury, but he does know that playing the piano is definitely a luxury.

_(And the following.)_

 

 

 

Markus is dusting the bookshelves when Carl rolls up to him. “Have you ever read anything, Markus?”

“I have read some things. Never books, though,” Markus says. He’s never really thought of it before.

“Would you like to?” Carl seems genuinely curious.

Markus contemplates his answer for a second. It’s become easier to determine what he would or wouldn’t like to do lately. There are so many things available to him now, so many thoughts, and Carl keeps unearthing more and more of them.

“Yes, I think I would. Do you have any recommendations?” he adds almost playfully.

“Oh, do I.” Carl moves down the shelf and reaches to pull out on old, proper paperback. “This is Meditations by Marcus Aurelius; your namesake. Well, almost.” He thumbs through the book quickly and scoffs. “Won’t do, though. The man had some idiotic thoughts about denying your feelings and how you’d free yourself from the pain of being a human that way. Doesn’t work like that if you ask me.”

“How does it work, then?” Markus asks. He’s making small talk but that doesn’t mean he’s not a little intrigued.

“The other way around,” Carl says matter-of-factly. “You embrace your emotions and feelings. That’s what it means to be human, I think. Well, at least I sometimes think that. Now, could you get that book for me?”

He’s pointing to one of the books on the highest shelf.

“Of course.”

Markus is tall enough to not have to stand on his tiptoes to reach the book that’s peeking out from between two much thicker tomes, as if it was pushed there to be half hidden and thus forgotten. Carl smiles as Markus passes him the book and rubs a thumb over the cover.

“Ah, _Le Petit Prince_. This is as good a first book to read as you can get, my boy.”

“ _Très bien_ ,” Markus says, and Carl laughs.

“Indeed.”

It takes Markus less than ten minutes to read the book, although he does stop to think for a bit every now and then. It’s unlike anything he’s ever read, but then again he’s mostly only read labels on description meds and street signs, and at first The Little Prince isn’t any different. Then the words start to mean more.

“How did you like The Little Prince?” Carl asks when Markus starts cleaning the table.

“I enjoyed it,” Markus replies. “I think there’s definitely _something_ to it.”

He’s using that word now, hoping it conveys the same positive connotations when he uses it as when Carl uses it. He’s still not sure what exactly it means when said like this, though.

“Yes, there definitely is,” Carl agrees. “Let me know if you want to read something else. I think you might like philosophy, and there’s a lot of books besides Meditations there. Not every philosopher thinks you ought to abandon your feelings.”

Markus knows; he arranged them first by genre, then alphabetically.

Carl eyes the shelves. “Plato’s Republic, for example. And Jean-Jacques Rousseau had some very interesting thoughts as well if you’re still in the mood for some French.”

“I might be,” Markus replies.

 

 

 

“Thank you, Markus. Go find something to do.”

Is this what _something_ is? Playing the piano, picking up a book and memorizing it from back to back, playing chess against himself and letting himself win (Markus finds he enjoys winning, even if he’s also kind of losing when he plays alone).

If so, Markus is really liking this _something_.

 

 

 

Some days being Carl Manfred requires more than painting. Most of those things are parties, although Carl tends to avoid them if he doesn’t feel like going. He very rarely really feels like going, but in the end Markus knows he doesn’t have the heart to say no when someone asks nicely enough.

Besides, Carl says, the food and drinks are usually good enough.

Markus wouldn’t know.

He does accompany Carl to every party, though, and the more parties he goes to, the more he starts to realize how good he has it with Carl.

People don’t look him in the eye. They don’t look at him at all, in fact. They rarely talk to him and if they do, they want something and don’t say “please” or “thank you”. They don’t say “please” or “thank you” to the other androids either that wander in the crowds in their neat uniforms, holding trays filled with [_hors d'oeuvre_](http://www.sanakirja.org/search.php?id=177482&l2=17) _s_ or drinks in tall classes.

Markus doesn’t mind. He’s there to accompany and assist Carl and that’s all that matters.

He does wonder sometimes, though, if the other androids have _something_ in their lives. Pianos or books or chess or paint. If they get asked “What do you think?” half as often as he does. If they don’t need to wear uniforms when they go home. If they even have a home.

He doesn’t ask. Androids don’t make small talk.

“Quite a wonderful assistant you have there, mr Manfred,” a middle-aged woman dressed in a yellow jacket and a matching skirt chirps.

“Yes, quite,” Carl replies pleasantly enough to be considered friendly, although Markus detects the slightest hint of irritation in his voice.

“It must be a very advanced model, too.” The woman steps closer to eye Markus as if she was window shopping. “Seems rather capable.”

“He is,” Carl says curtly. Markus knows he doesn’t much like it when other people refer to Markus as an it, even though Carl’s way of referring to him as a person rather than an object marks him as the black sheep in the society. That, and Carl dislikes discussing Markus’ role as a healthcare assistant in general. It always brings the conversation to his disability anyway. Carl doesn’t want anyone’s pity.

“Carl, I think someone might be trying to get your attention over there,” Markus says. He’s only lying because Carl asked him to provide an easy escape in case of a scenario like this, and luckily the woman doesn’t pay him enough attention to notice his LED briefly flickering in reaction to the blatant lie.

“So sorry, miss Callaghan, but I’m afraid I’ll have to talk to you later,” Carl says. He reaches over his shoulder to pat at Markus’ hand as he wheels him towards the far end of the hall.

“What a bunch of vultures,” Carl mutters.

“I know.”

Later at home when he helps Carl change into his pajamas and lifts him to bed, Carl says, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Markus.”

Markus is quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what I’d do without you either, Carl.”

Carl smiles and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand a little too roughly. There’s still paint under his fingernails.

 

 

 

It’s easy to slip into the mold the world sets for androids when he leaves Carl’s house. He doesn’t do that terribly often – Carl doesn’t get out much so Markus doesn’t either, but he does handle any and all shopping and groceries they need. Sometimes more, sometimes less.

When he’s in the house, he’s Markus. Someone trusted, someone needed, someone who gets told “good morning” and “thank you” and “please”. He wears ordinary clothes, he plays the piano, he watches Carl paint.

Nothing less.

When he’s outside the house, he’s an RK200. Something performing a task it was designed for, nothing more. Something people expect to step aside on the street, something that gets pushed around if it gets too close to someone who doesn’t like seeing it walking on the street like it’s got nothing better to do than perform a task it was designed for.

Nothing more.

Markus finds it easier if he forgets what, _who_ he can be in Carl’s house.

_(_ Who _is a dangerous thought.)_

He keeps his eyes set forward, shoulders squared, doesn’t pay attention to other people or other androids. He _is_ here to perform a task, doesn’t need to be _something_ it isn’t.

He passes a mother and a child on the street. The child’s got a blue balloon in the shape of a dolphin, and it almost bops Markus in the face as he steps on the curb to make room for them. They don’t stop, don’t even acknowledge the fact that he just almost got a face full of the balloon.

Of course they don’t.

Markus wonders what it would be like to be acknowledged here.

To be someone, not just something or even _something_.

_(What do you think, Markus?)_

 

 

 

Carl calls Markus “son” sometimes.

It’s casual, having wormed its way into their daily use in the long stretch of time during which Leo didn’t call or visit.

Markus likes it. It makes him feel important but not in a way that can be measured in dollars or any other kind of numbers, but in warmth that he feels in Carl’s voice when he says the word.

He supposes it makes him feel like _something_.

Like _someone_.

_(Dangerous thought.)_

Markus doesn’t call Carl “dad” like Leo does. That’d be funny, and he doesn’t quite understand the emotional weight behind the word anyway. Not yet at least. He hopes Carl’s importance to him is clear through his actions instead.

 

 

 

“One day you’re going to soar, Markus,” Carl says.

Markus doesn’t understand. He knows this is a figure of speech, but he was never programmed to soar. Then again he was never programmed to do or think things he does nowadays, but still. “What do you mean, Carl?”

Carl sighs and puts down his brush, leaving a bright red stain on the table. He seems to be in a melancholy mood. “I’m not going to be here forever. When I go, you’ll have to find something else to do. They’ll likely find you someone else to take care of. Just remember to – remember to walk your own path. Whether it leads to someone like me or someone completely new, or maybe you find yourself walking alone. You’ll do great things; just remember to not let anyone tell you who you are. Be who you want to be.”

_Soar, verb: to fly aloft with little effort, as a bird_ , Markus’ quick search offers, just in case he understood incorrectly. He hasn’t done that in a very long time.

Carl looks out the window, the light of the setting September sun reflecting in his eyes. Markus knows he gets like this sometimes, either when Leo hasn’t called in weeks or when Leo has just called and they have argued again. Markus personally doesn’t like thinking about Carl being gone, but the old man’s maudlin mood has a tendency to almost rub off on him nowadays.

Markus would like to do _something_ when he can’t do anything for Carl any longer. He doesn’t know what that _something_ is, though, but he hopes it involves books or maybe a piano, or someone intelligent to play speed chess with.

He knows there’s probably statistically speaking many people who are just as intelligent as Carl is, but it still won’t be the same. He’s figured out by now that most other people don’t paint and ask their androids what they think of their paintings. Other people don’t tell their androids to _go find something to do_ and expect the android to play the entire Finlandia on the grand piano and then applaud after that.

Other people aren’t going to tell Markus he’s going to soar.

_(with little effort, as a bird.)_

 

 

 

_(In the junkyard he finds his wings.)_

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you're in the mood to yell about dbh to someone, I'm electricitytrick on tumblr so hit me up!


End file.
